


Murder!

by SanSanFanFan



Series: The Great Angel Detective [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, More detectiving, murder mystery weekend, with Agatha Christie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:10:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanSanFanFan/pseuds/SanSanFanFan
Summary: A Sequel to "What Would Poirot Do?", where Aziraphale and Crowley are invited to spend the weekend with Agatha Christie and someone is murdered!





	Murder!

_31st May 1946_  
  


_My dearest A. Z. F.,_

_I am simply ecstatic that you will be able to come and visit us at Greenway House! Max is excited beyond all sensibilities with regards to bending your ear further about his quest of attaining that Parisian reprint of_ Mémoires sur l'Égypte _with the grumpy marginalia by Napoleon that you mentioned in your last letter to him. But I am certain that we can find other pleasant diversions for you on Devon’s coast! The sea is a brilliant azure at this time of year, and the air will be a welcome change from London, no doubt. We have some other guests with us presently who I just know you will adore. An actress, a composer, an artist or two. We will all muddle together and share stories of great adventures and high romances. Perhaps even the odd murder mystery or two!_

_The Paignton or Kingswear trains can get you to Greenway Halt, and I can have a man sent down there for you on the morning of the 5 th to cart up any bags. There is a phone at the halt, so please call up to the house on Galmpton 5454 when you arrive. _

_Although, perhaps I recall you mentioning in one of your letters having a dashing friend with an even more dashing black Bentley? We have space enough for him as well, if you can tempt him to come along?_

_With all warmest regards,_

_Agatha._

 

Crowley has watched his passenger take the letter out, read it, fold it carefully, and then return it to an inner pocket of his coat several times now. Even the first time he’d done it, just after they’d pulled away from the bookshop, the letter had looked creased and wrinkled as though folded and refolded many times already. Crowley tried to hide a slight smile, but when it happened _again_ just a few minutes later he had to say something.

“Dashing, am I?” He tipped his black trilby as he smirked at the angel.

Aziraphale’s cheeks bloomed red and he stuttered. “I- I probably mentioned your love of speeding along in the Bentley in one of my letters.” But then Aziraphale looked critically at the road ahead of them, and he sniffed at the car’s current slow creep. “Although I do notice that we’re going a _little bit_ slower than we were when we left London?”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t want to scare the sheep.”

A large baleful eye peered on at the angel on his side of the car, its slit-like pupils and yellow eyes perhaps reminding him of someone. Fifty or so of the blighte- _blessed creations of God_ \- were surrounding the Bentley as it crept along the high hedged country road. Aziraphale looked closely at Crowley, trying to spot hints of his dark humour being behind this choice.

“You don’t like sheep.”

“Fluffy little clouds on four legs? Who doesn’t like sheep?” Crowley laughed, “Actually I was seeing if there was a speed to rereading the letter ratio. And I think I’ve proven that there is.”

Aziraphale humphed a little even as his fingers were itching to get the letter out again.

“I do believe that you are nervous, angel.”

“Oh Crowley! I’m such a fan, and we’ve had such a lovely correspondence these past few years.” Aziraphale seemed to swallow deeply, “What if she doesn’t like me? What if I’m just more interesting on paper?!”

Crowley tried not to snarl his response, because he was really only angry at some imaginary – ludicrous, insane, completely and utterly made up- human writer who wouldn’t like the angel when finally meeting him in person. “Then we’ll just leave, angel. We go any time you want to. I’m- the Bentley’s at your disposal this weekend. Just say the word.”

With that, he flicked the car through the next few gears and into some that it hadn’t had when he’d bought it, and somehow they _dashed_ past the milling sheep without disturbing a single white curl on their heads.

***

They made it to the house in record time, a seven-hour journey plus breaks had taken them a little over two hours with Crowley nudging the speed dial up beyond one hundred or so. But as they turned onto the main drive Crowley slowed down to a more human twenty miles an hour. For the appearance of it, of course, not to give the angel any more time with which to enjoy his first sight of Christie’s sweeping green lawns and the stuccoed white house as they drew nearer. Greenway House was Georgian, with two wings added sometime in the 1800s, if Crowley’s eye for architecture was right – and it always was.

They drew up to the main door, bracketed with white pillars holding up a porch, and Crowley stopped the car, letting the engine wind down into a low purr before stopping. As Aziraphale bobbed out and went to pull his tartan valise from the back seat, he might have quickly given the steering wheel a quick pat of thanks.

“Oh Crowley!” Aziraphale said in awe when Crowley joined the angel in standing by the car. “I’m so excited!”

 _And if she doesn’t like you, she’ll have boils on her typing fingers for the next twenty years_ , thought Crowley as he looked down at the angel who was near enough vibrating with joy. _Try writing your murder books then, Ms Christie!_

His dark thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of an old woman in a tweed skirt, her hair carefully pinned into tights curls on her head, and a slightly younger man with a friendly red round face with a moustache growing on it and a pipe stuck in it. Crowley straightened up and watched her crunch over the gravel to Aziraphale and take both his hands in hers in a fervent greeting.

“My dearest Mr Fell! You made it!” She kissed him briefly on both cheeks in the French way and ushered her husband forward to greet him too, “And this is my Max. But I promise you I have made him hold his tongue on his numerous book requests until you are comfortably settled in your rooms!”

As Max shook Aziraphale’s hand, she looked up at Crowley, and he was suddenly very aware of the intensity of her scrutiny. Uh oh, here was a human that _noticed_ things!

“Mr Crowley?” She asked, extending her hand to him as she continued to _note_ things about him. His sunglasses seemed to be of immediate interest. He fought the urge to swear. “Any friend of our dear A.Z.F. is a friend of ours. And you have been friends for quite a long time, I gather?”

Crowley felt suddenly nervous, as though – ridiculous as it was – he was under investigation. “A good few years. Thank you for your hospitality-”

Max came and shook his hand then, interrupting his wife’s curiosity. He gave Crowley’s hand a couple of strong pumps, and then went back to his puff puff puff on the pipe. He gave off a dusty, scholarly, air and certainly paid more attention to books and antiquities than people. He was no real danger. But that Agatha…

“Come in, come in. The others are in the parlour. It seems the composer I invited is more interested in my collection of board games than the Steinway! But you can meet them all once you’ve had a chance to freshen up. You are in the Blue Room Mr Fell, and your _friend_ is in the Red Room.” She smiled at them both.

Was there the teeniest, tiniest, emphasis on the word ‘friend’ then, or had he imagined it?

***

It turned out that the Red Room and the Blue Room were connected by a locked door that gave up the ghost as soon as Crowley glared at it. He sauntered into Aziraphale’s room and threw himself across a high-backed chair upholstered in a sky blue to watch the angel carefully unpacking his things.

“You actually brought luggage?”

“You had a black bag with you, didn’t you?”

“All for show.” He arched an eyebrow at Aziraphale as the angel held up a smarter jacket against himself as he looked himself over in a long mirror. He looked concerned at his appearance.

“You’re going to change for dinner?” Crowley asked casually.

“Oh, I do think so. Don’t you?”

Crowley leaned back on the chair and looked up at the clouds painted on the ceiling. This Christie woman was either _very_ perceptive or it was a coincidence. “Nice room,” He said flippantly as he transformed his clothes into something more penguin-like that he instantly wanted to shed.

“How’s yours?” Aziraphale said, peaking towards the open door as he shuffled into his own cream dinner jacket.

“Very red. Too much tartan.”

“Ooh!”

The angel smiled at him with such pure happiness that he almost didn’t catch the burst of feeling. He curled his hand into a fist and managed to dampen it down quickly. The angel had never quite been the detective he’d hoped to be, but even so, Crowley’d had to get better at hiding the clues over the past few years just in case. And distracting him when necessary.

Somewhere in the house, the dinner gong rang out a good ten minutes earlier than the time the cook had told the footman to hit it.

“Oh, dinner!”

***

The other humans turned out to be far less astute than Ms Christie as well, which at least meant he could get away with muttering about flare damage during the war when the actress stared at his sunglasses, and the others just left it at that. He was given a commiserating slap on the back by the colonel with the bushy moustache (another bloody one…) and the wealthy young lady in red purred at the ‘war hero’ a bit, but it passed into old news extremely quickly.

Dinner was pleasant enough he supposed, but perhaps he spent more time watching the other guests than eating. Aziraphale was in his element the whole time, asking questions about the actress’s new play, the professor’s latest research, the composer’s plans for some very complicated sounding boardgames.

When they finally retired to the drawing room for brandies, Crowley was about ready to slip into something a little less leggy and to curl up under his blankets for a week. But then he saw Ms Christie working her way around the room in her black satin dress.

“Cheers,” She said, clinking her glass to his, “It's so wonderful that dear Mr Fell could tempt you to stay.”

He almost chokes on his drink, but the grey-haired woman moves on before he can be sure what she exactly meant by that.

“You must take a look around the estate tomorrow morning. Mr Fell has expressed a desire to visit the swimming pool-”

Images of Aziraphale in a woollen striped bathing suit from the turn of the last century swam through his head, and he had to clamp down on _that_ as well.

“And of course, there’s the greenhouse and the vinery.”

Crowley perked up. Warmmmthhh! “Oh, yes, I have a strong interest in botany.”

“Well, Mr Green the Gardener does his best, but we’re no Kew!” She smiled warmly, and he found himself smiling back.

“I will certainly take a look.”

***

Crowley was keen on his bed when they finally ascended the stairs after a few rounds of after dinner drinks. The colonel and the composer had wanted to start a game of poker, but Crowley was too tired to feign the level of inexperience he’d need to give them a fighting chance. Aziraphale, never needing, or perhaps wanting to sleep, was full of bounce as they traipsed up the stairs and into their adjoining rooms.

“Such a night!” the angel beamed, “Did you enjoy yourself too?”

“Well, I did manage to tempt the actress into an ill-advised rendez-vous with the colonel later on tonight.” He smirked.

“You didn’t?! You did?!”

“You were talking books with Max again, and I was bored. He’s entirely wrong about the date of the Battle of the Nile by the way.”

Aziraphale looked cross. “I didn’t think I’d need to be thwarting your wiles this weekend!”

“Oh please, the colonel needed very little nudging. Calling it one of my wiles is a bit much-”

“I like these people, Crowley!”

“I don’t dislike them either. That Ms Christie in particular. Do you know that they have a vinery-”

“I want to go to bed,” Aziraphale said flatly. “Please.”

“Angel, you don’t sleep.”

“Good evening, Crowley.” The words were brutal staccatos. Crowley sighed and unwrapped himself from the angel’s chair.

“Of course.”

Back in his own room, with its red tartan wallpaper and lack of Aziraphale, he fought the urge to go rush back and apologise to him. He knew he shouldn’t have done it, that he’d run the risk of ruining Aziraphale’s weekend for the sake of a silly little temptation.

“Damn me,” He groaned and flopped backwards onto his four-poster bed.

***

“Have you two had a bit of a tiff?”

Crowley looked up from the coffee cup he’d been scowling into to see Ms Christie at the door to the kitchens, considering him as she twisted the long chain of pearls around her neck. The cook had let him in reluctantly, but once she’d realised all he wanted was a coffee and a mope, she’d let him get on with it.

“The others came to the dining room for breakfast. Darling Aziraphale darted in for porridge, bacon, eggs, toast, two croissants, and three cups of tea before scooting out again to try out the pool. I don’t think that he wanted to bump into you.”

Crowley growled and scowled into his coffee.

“You need to make it up to him.”

“Why do you think I’m the one in the wrong?”

Agatha’s eyes sparkled as she looked at him, “Aren’t you?”

“Damn, you’re good.” Crowley smiled ruefully, “How do you think I can make it up to him?”

“Well, gifts can be good. A little something that tells him that you know him, what he likes, and what he wants-”

Crowley thought for a moment, and then stood up, “By Sata- By Jove, I’ve got it.”

He darted past the confused writer and out the back door towards the gardens.

“Mr Crowley?” Called the old woman after him, suddenly concerned. “What are you going to do Mr Crowley?!”

***

The woman’s screams brought Aziraphale rushing to surface of the swimming pool from the spot on the bottom where he’d been sitting for the past half hour. It was peaceful and shimmering with light down there, and he could have stayed there the rest of the day and avoided Cro- people for much longer.

He grabbed at his towel to cover most of him – not that he needed to in his thick woollen bathing suit – and joined the rest of the guests just outside the vinery where the colonel was trying to calm the hysterical actress.

And lying on the ground there, his head looking quite un-head shaped with that big dent in it, was a man in gardener’s dungerees. A bloody shovel lay nearby.

“Oh no!” Gasped Aziraphale.

“Its Mr Green, the gardener!” shouted the composer, Mr Pratt, “In the garden, with the shovel!”

“He’s been murdered” Wailed another guest. “Call the police!”

“No need.” Said a calm confident voice, and Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley walking towards them holding out an unfolded wallet and presented what looked like a blank piece of paper to the angel’s celestial eyes. “I am actually Inspector Crowley of New Scotland Yard, and the kind-hearted Mr Fell here is none other than one of the queen’s leading detectives!”.

“Crowley!” Hissed Aziraphale when he could get close enough, “What’s going on here?”

“Murder!” Smiled Crowley, “It’s a gift. You don’t have to thank me.”

“You. Killed. The. Gardener?!”

Crowley smirked, “Oh come on, angel. It’s a game! You know, ‘the game’s afoot!’”

“That’s not- ooooh!”

“He’s just asleep. I’ll sort out their memories after, but for now, you can be the great Mr Fell, genius detective!”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he looked up at Crowley, and the demon had to dampen down his response again. But then the angel turned, and in one swift move replaced his bathing suit with his usual clothes and pulled a notebook and a small stubby pencil from nowhere.

“Very good inspector Crowley, we should start by interviewing the suspects.”

“Of course, Gov,” said Crowley in a broader London accent than usual.

“Miss Scarlett, can you tell me where you were before the body was found?”

***

“The professor?”

“Nope.”

“The colonel?”

“He was with the actress. Again. The dirty old man.”

“Oh Crowley! I haven’t got a clue!”

Crowley lounged back in his chair and looked at the angel over his sunglasses. “Shall I tell you?”

Aziraphale was near enough vibrating in frustration, “Crowley!”

“It was the cook, Mrs White.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“What was her motivation?”

“Oh, I hadn’t got that far. Dunno, jealousy’s still popular. Maybe he was ignoring her for his orchids.” Crowley smiled and sipped on his cocktail. “Did you have fun, angel?”

Aziraphale smiled as Mrs White came around with some canapes and took one before leaning closer to the demon in the next chair. “Lots! And none of them remembers a thing?”

“Most of them. Mr Pratt’s mind was remarkably stubborn. I expected Ms Christie to be the hardest to rewrite, but he’s come away with some new idea for a board game. He didn’t like my suggestion of a name though. He’s going with ‘Murder!’, which is a bit on the nose for me.” Crowley sulked a little.

“Thank you.” Said Aziraphale with genuine feeling. “This has been quite the weekend, and I have enjoyed spending it with you.”

Crowley waved a hand in dismissal as Max came in.

“Your bags have been taken out to your car. Though I don’t remember asking Tom to bring your Bentley around…?”

Crowley stood and shook the man’s hand, and then turned back to his companion, “Come on now angel, time to get back to London.”

Ms Christie joined her husband in waving off the pair of them.

“You were right about them of course, my smart little detective.” He gave her a kiss on the forehead. “He called him his angel just now.”

“Such a lovely couple. I hope that they can come visit us again sometime…”


End file.
